


you knew what it was (he is in love)

by metalsuit



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Sharing a Bed, Trans Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 11:41:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18964528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metalsuit/pseuds/metalsuit
Summary: He feels Tasha slump even more, sighing. “Will you make me some coffee?”“Decaf,” he tells her. giving her a stern look. “No caffeine, not when you’re like this.”She gives him a wounded look but doesn’t argue (and, Steve thinks, she must really be messed up for that to happen), getting her arm around his waist as they walk back up to the tower.“Meet me in my room?” she asks him when they’re at the doorstep. “I’ll leave it open for you.”*after a date gone wrong, tasha stark comes home to steve.





	you knew what it was (he is in love)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [benigns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/benigns/gifts).



> hi, everyone! so this is kind of an earth 3490/mcu crossover thing. 
> 
> warning for mentions of alcoholism. 
> 
> BIG BIG THANK YOU TO SAM FOR FIXING THIS FOR ME. 
> 
> (this is for sharon!! i'm sorry you had a bad day. also sorry this isn't the fic i promised to write you. THAT ONE'S COMING I SWEAR.)

Steve Rogers has never been a jealous man. 

Sure, in the ‘40s he wanted things that others had, but that wasn’t jealousy; it was wistfulness, nostalgia for something he didn’t have the chance to get. 

Sitting at the kitchen table nursing his third cup of coffee, though, it may be time to admit it. 

“Come on,” Bucky says, nudging his hip with the foot resting on Steve’s chair. “It’s just a date. She’s still coming home to  _ you _ .” 

“She’s not  _ coming home _ to me,” Steve insists, staring into the mug, hands clasped tightly around it. “She’s just coming home. I happen to also live here.” 

Bucky groans, leaning his head back against the chair. “You are  _ such  _ a fucking drag,” he tells him. “Will you just kiss her when she walks inside? Push her up against a wall and—” 

Steve gives him a look. 

It takes a lot to scare Bucky, generally, but right now he wilts, holding his arms up, metal gleaming in the dim kitchen light. “Fine,” he says. 

Steve sets his jaw, staring at his fingers again, tapping against the porcelain. “She’s allowed to date whoever she wants,” he says. 

“That’s true,” and Bucky’s laughing at him a little, Steve can tell, even if he’s soundless when he does it and Steve won’t look at him. “And  _ you’re  _ allowed to be jealous about it.” 

“I’m not—jealous,” Steve almost-whines, shaking his head. “I just don’t want her to get hurt. What if he’s an asshole? Or tries to push her into something? Or—”

“I’m pretty sure she’d kick your ass for saying that,” Bucky points out, and kicks him in the hip this time, almost hard enough to leave a bruise. “Think she’s more than capable of handling herself.” 

And, okay—that’s true, Steve knows that, but he also knows what it was like for her to come out, how she wilted the first time she got a slur thrown at her. (He doesn’t know what Bucky knows about that, and it’s not his secret to tell, so he stays quiet.) “I know,” he says, instead, and drains the mug. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he scrambles to get it, waving his hand at Bucky to  _ shut up, please  _ when he answers. “Yeah? Tasha?” he asks, hurrying away from the kitchen to avoid Bucky’s (probable) catcalls. 

“Hey,” she says. “I’m outside, and I can’t get in. Can you come get me?” 

“Yeah,” he says quietly, smiling down at the floor, feeling a bit like an idiot. Well, more than a bit. “You’re outside?” 

“Yeah,” she says, and then, “quick, come on, it’s fucking freezing out here…” 

He frowns when he grabs a jacket and tugs it on, considering it for a long moment before he grabs one for Tasha as well. “JARVIS?” he calls. “Is everything alright? Why’s she outside?” 

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that, Captain Rogers,” comes the reply. 

His frown only deepens as he runs down the steps, pushing open the front door and jogging outside, looking around for her. “Tash?” he calls. 

He sees her figure at the end of the drive, broad and short and — sunken, almost. 

“Hey,” he says when he’s close enough, letting his voice soften. “You okay?” 

She nods, arms wrapped around herself. “I’m not sure I can move,” she says, looking at him then. There are tears on her face, Steve notices dimly, and then — he’s wrapping her in a hug, slipping a hand into her hair and whispering,  _ you’re okay, it’s okay _ , against her hair. 

(For a brief moment, he worries that she’s been hurt, but Bucky’s words resonate in his mind, and anyway he knows the signs of Tasha having a panic attack better than his own.) 

She all but collapses against him. “Sorry,” she says, and she sounds absolutely miserable. “I didn’t mean… this.” 

“It’s okay,” he tells her, smiling, pressing kisses against her hair. “Did you have fun, at least?” 

“Yeah,” she says, and — evidently he wasn’t expecting her to say that, because his heart sinks a little. “A lot of fun.” 

“Oh,” is all he can muster for a minute, and then he gathers himself. “That’s great, babe. Think there’ll be a second date?” 

She shakes her head, resting her cheek against his chest; she’s searching, Steve knows, for his heartbeat, steady and sure. 

“Why not?” he asks after a long moment of being lit only by the moonlight.

She takes a breath, shaking her head after a second. “Later,” she promises, and he feels her slump even more, sighing. “Will you make me some coffee?” 

“Decaf,” he tells her, giving her a stern look. “No caffeine, not when you’re like this.” 

She gives him a wounded look but doesn’t argue (and, Steve thinks, she must  _ really _ be messed up for that to happen), getting her arm around his waist as they walk back up to the tower. 

“Meet me in my room?” she asks him when they’re at the doorstep. “I’ll leave it open for you.” 

Steve nods, his heart doing an awful, clenching thing at how wounded she sounds. “Yeah,” he promises, kissing her forehead and letting his lips linger for just a second. “Yeah. You go get comfortable, okay?” 

She nods, looking over his face again. There’s a shift, and then she’s heading inside, and Steve’s left alone on the porch. 

He takes another beat to steady himself, heading inside after her, back up to the kitchen. 

Bucky’s still at the table, and he gives him a questioning look. 

He shakes his head. “She’s having a problem, don’t know what it is,” he tells him, pouring her a thermos of coffee and a generous amount of milk. “I’m just gonna go keep her company. See if she wants to talk.” 

Bucky nods, mouth turned down a little. “Tell her I’m sorry to hear that,” he requests. 

Steve smiles at him. “You got it, Buck,” he promises, patting him on the arm and heading up to Tasha’s room. 

He knocks before he enters even though he’s got a passcode at this point, poking his head inside when he hears her invitation. 

She’s changed into her sleep clothes by now, an old shirt of Nat’s and a pair of running shorts that Steve’s pretty sure were once his. 

He smiles at her, keeping it gentle. "Buck sends his regards," he says, slipping into his old-fashioned way of speaking even as he knows she'll make fun of him for it. "He was in the kitchen, I just said—said you were having a tough time." 

She doesn’t make fun of him, just nods and looks at him for a long second. She looks wilted, almost, dress tossed over a chair and shoulders slumped. "Thanks," she says, and it comes out shaky, like she's failing to hold herself together. 

That, more than anything, spurs him on. "Hey," he whispers, sitting next to her and pouring out a good amount of coffee into a mug (her favorite, he's pretty sure), pressing it into her hands. "Everything alright?" 

She nods, setting her jaw and not looking at him. "I had a drink," she says. 

Steve closes his eyes. "Tash," he starts, but she waves him off with a trembling hand. 

"No, don't—it was just the one, just—I got wine, which was shitty, by the way, but he kept asking why I wouldn't drink, what was wrong, and I just…" She trails off. "I got it so he'd stop." 

Steve, more than anything else, wants to punch this man in the face. He doesn't, though, and that desire morphs into something more pure: an urge (need) to protect her.

She looks at him. Very softly, so softly he wouldn't be able to hear it were he not so close, she whispers, "Please don't be mad at me." 

He doesn't answer that, just pulling her into a tight hug, mindful of the coffee mug. "I'm not," he whispers after a long second. He can feel how stiff she still is, and he murmurs, "You're okay, we're okay." 

She laughs, almost sounding choked. "You're a terrible liar, Cap," she tells him, getting one arm tight around him anyway. "I can feel the disappointment radiating off you." 

He pulls back then, giving her a firm look. "I'm not disappointed," he tells her softly, resting one hand on her cheek and the other on her arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Some guy was a dick, that's not on you." 

"What, no lecture?" she asks. 

He shakes his head. "No lecture." He frowns a little, rubbing his thumb over the skin under her eye. "Did you really think I would?"

She shrugs. "It seems like your kind of thing. Getting mad at the alcoholic for indulging." 

"Recovering," he corrects without thinking about it, as he always does. "I don't see it that way, anyway." 

She stares at him for a long second, and he can see the gears in her mind turning, twisting around, trying to find the hidden meaning there. "I shouldn't have done it." 

"You felt unsafe," Steve says. 

She opens her mouth to argue, probably point out that she had the fucking gauntlet in her purse, but—

"Emotionally, I mean," Steve says, and she goes still. "You were on a date. Probably wanted this guy to like you, and didn't want him to know about your problem. So you took care of yourself." He pauses for a long second, watching her face. "I'm proud of you," he finally says. 

She closes her eyes, shaking her head tightly. "You shouldn’t be,” she tells him. “I almost got another drink, another—something stronger.” She keeps her eyes shut. “I wanted to.” 

“Did you?” Steve asks. There’s worry etched into his words, but he does his best to keep his voice even, as neutral as he can. 

She chews on her lower lip. “No,” she says. “But I had some of his when he got up.” She smiles, somewhat rueful. “Had the waiter replace it for me without saying anything. Sorry.” 

Steve feels his heart sink a little. He hasn’t seen her like this before, melancholy and asking, shit,  _ apologizing _ , and the knowledge that it’s the alcohol is hard to take. “Tasha,” he breathes, pulling her into another tight hug, getting a hand in her hair. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the side of her head, just under her ear. 

“Think you got even more disappointed when I said that,” she mumbles, and then swallows. “I’m sorry, Steve,” she whispers. 

_ Steve _ . She never calls him that, and his heart breaks a little at the sound. “It’s okay,” he promises. “What… how can I help?” 

She tucks her chin against his shoulder, making a wounded noise. “You’re not gonna like it,” she warns. 

“Hit me with it,” Steve offers, rubbing his free hand over her back, over the soft material of the shirt. 

“Stay with me?” she asks, quiet and muffled enough that Steve’s not sure he’s heard her right. He can’t have heard her right, why would she… 

“Say again?” he asks, pulling back enough to look at her face, wiping away a couple of tears that have fallen. 

“Stay with me,” she repeats, voice a little stronger now. “If I’m alone I know I’ll just… I know where Nat keeps the liquor, and I know I’ll… but if you’re here I won’t.” She shrugs. “I know it’s an imposition, I can—pay you—”

Steve frowns. “What? No, Tash—no, don’t pay me, I don’t want—I’ll stay, I don’t mind. Just tell me how you want me.” 

She laughs at that, shaking her head fast. “Oh, I don’t think you’d like the sound of that,” she mumbles under her breath. She smirks a little at her lap, but then adds, “I want you here. Wherever you’re comfortable.” 

“I can sleep anywhere, babe,” Steve tells her, feeling over her cheek again, trying to catch her eye and smile at her. “Couch, floor, I don’t mind.” 

“Bed?” she offers, finally meeting his gaze. “Could have a bit of fun…” 

Steve’s heart sinks. “Tash—if you’re gonna try and repay me with—like that, please, don’t,” he says in a rush, words tripping over each other. 

“It only seems fair,” she says. “Give you a good time in exchange for a bad time.” She avoids his gaze again, setting her jaw. 

“Tash,” he starts again, and the  _ no _ is heavy in his voice.

“Stop,” she tells him, voice firm now. “No, it’s—fine, it’s fine, don’t know what I was thinking. Should’ve just went home with my date if I wanted that, hm?” 

“Hey,” he says, sharp to try and break her out of whatever this is. He watches her. “Don’t talk like that. You… it’s not a bad time, being here with you. Never a bad time.” He pets her hair again, giving her as sincere a look as he can manage. “I care about you, okay? And however I can help, I want to be here.” 

She nods, and he can feel how she’s trembling. “Okay,” she says. She licks her lips. “Okay. I’m sorry.” 

He kisses her forehead in response, closing his eyes. “What can I do for you right now, then?” he whispers. 

“Stay,” she says again. She holds loosely onto his wrist. "That's all I want." 

She sounds desperate, like she's falling apart, and Steve wants to say something, anything to try and reassure her, but—

"Okay," he promises. "Okay." 

*

It's awkward at first, getting themselves into bed together. Tasha is closed-off but clearly desperate for touch; after her third almost-request for a hug Steve tugs her over so her head is on his chest, hand in her hair. 

Her breathing stops, for just a second, and then she melts against him. "You're good at this, you fucker," she tells him, and there's a laugh under it, finally. 

He snorts, tilting his head back against the headboard. "Are you complaining?" he asks. 

He can hear more than see her smirk when she says, "Yeah. Gonna have to figure out a pillow situation to try and approximate this cuddle. It's unfair." 

Steve shrugs, still running his fingers through her hair (getting long now, he notices, and he's thrilled for her). "Not like I ever do anything at night," he points out. "Could just call me over if you ever want…"

It's the wrong thing to say, because her whole body goes stiff, her head lifting off of him slightly. 

_ Shit _ . "Sorry," he says immediately. "You can—pillows, that's fine, forget I said anything." This is what he does; he gets too attached to an idea, and then his mouth moves faster than his brain, and she gets uncomfortable (Tasha, it's always Tasha that gets his mind racing). 

He can almost hear the gears in her mind turning. "Why'd you offer?" she asks then. 

He lets out a little breath. "You're not the only lonely one," he tells her. "It's difficult, being in that bed all alone. I used to invite Bucky over, have a sleepover, but now…" He has Nat, and he wouldn't ask that from him. 

"Barnes," she says, resting her head on his chest again, though not quite as easily as before. "You and him…" She trails off, waving her hand a little. 

"No! No," he says, shaking his head fast. "No, haven't done that since—no. It was just a comfort thing."  _ Like this _ , he doesn't say, because these aren't the same, and he's never been a liar. 

"Since when?" she asks, rolling onto her back, head still resting on his stomach, looking at his face. 

His stomach does a flip at that, at how close she is, at how he could—but she’s drunk, or at least tipsy, and there’s no way he’d do that. "Oh, we never—he was, uh. He was my first kiss," Steve admits, looking at her. "Back when I was—before the serum, when no one would've wanted me. He took one for the team," he tries to joke, tucking some of her hair behind her ear. 

She's frowning. "Someone would have wanted you," she tells him, so earnest he feels his heart break a little. 

"Thank you," he tells her, fingertips gentle on her cheek. She's not lying, he knows that, but she's also never known how it feels to be unwanted. 

His insincerity must show on his face, because her frown only deepens, and she rolls onto her side, finger nudging against the corner of his mouth. “You would’ve been,” she says.

"Sorry," he says, shrugging, "but have you seen me from before? Nothing special." He's also not anything special now, but he knows if he says that she'll yell at him. 

She taps her fingers against his chest, face serious for a long second. "I have, actually," she tells him. She goes quiet, smiling a little. “You were cute.” 

Steve frowns, looking over her face. “When did you…” He trails off. “You’ve never mentioned it before.” 

She goes red. “Well,” she says, chewing on her lip for a second. “I, uh. I had a bit of a… Captain America thing when I was a kid.” 

Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t that. “ _ What _ ?” he asks, laughing a little. “You—really?” 

“Yeah,” she admits, giggling a little herself, though her face is still pink. “I mean, Howard loved you so much, so I saw your pictures all the time… had quite a few fantasies about you. Heroic fantasies,” she adds quickly. “Just—you saving me from him. That kind of thing.” 

His mouth goes dry. “Me?” he asks. Even if the fantasies were innocent, his heart doesn’t know how to handle it, how to take care of her now.

She nods, breathing quicker. He can feel her shaking a little. “And then when I was older,” she says, pushing through it, “I thought—I saw you from before the serum, and I thought about me saving you. Like they always said Barnes did.” 

“He did,” he murmurs, chest tight. 

“So…” She shrugs. “Of course you’d have been wanted.” She looks at his chin like she’s not looking at him at all. 

Steve stares for a second; for once, he’s at a loss for words. “Tash,” he says quietly, petting her cheek again, fingertips barely there. 

She shakes her head. “Don’t,” she says. “Don’t make fun of me, Rogers. It was terrible, and I needed something to hope for, and you were everywhere, and—”

He cuts her off, nudging a couple of fingers against her lips. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “It’s nice.” He presses his lips together, searching for the right thing to say. “You’d make a good protector.” 

Her face closes, and she takes in a little shaky breath. “Don’t be like that,” she whispers. “Don’t say it unless…”

“I mean it,” Steve tells her, tucking her hair behind her ear again, feeling over the back of her neck. “And I won’t make fun of you, that’s… it’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. You wanted me to be your protector.” 

“And now I’ve got you in my bed,” Tasha says, and the words come out shakily, like she’s trying to tease and failing. The words linger between them, and a braver, stupider Steve might act on it, but—he isn’t, and he isn’t.

“How are you feeling?” Steve asks her after a second, adjusting his limbs, trying to tug her up closer to him, onto the pillow instead of his chest. 

She goes easily, lying down next to him, eye to eye. “Sober, if that’s what you’re asking,” she whispers. 

“Not entirely,” he murmurs, and then goes quiet. She’s smart, she’ll understand. 

She sighs, closing her eyes. “I’m fine, Rogers,” she says. “Just told my best friend my biggest secret, is all.” 

He frowns a little, gently rubbing his thumb over the frown lines between her eyes. “Your secret’s safe with me,” he says. He waits another beat, and adds, “And you’re my best friend, too.” 

She laughs, blinking at him. There are tears in her eyes, he notices dimly, and he feels like a terrible person for still thinking,  _ wish I could kiss her _ . “You’ve got Barnes,” she says. 

“I do,” he agrees, slipping one of his arms around her waist and smiling. “I’ve got you too, though. My favorite girl. Favorite person.” 

She stares at him, looking over his face. “You’re not fucking with me,” she says. 

He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t,” he murmurs. He’s stuck on a loop of thoughts about Tasha, sweet, young Tasha, thinking about  _ him  _ of all people saving her. He’s always thinking about her as it is, but this is intense, like she’s handed him her heart without fear of him breaking it.

She smiles a little, though there’s a sadness there. “Thank you,” she says, and the voice she uses is the same Steve used earlier. 

He doesn’t call her out on it; she’s bared so much already tonight, anything else can wait. “You think you’re ready to sleep?” he asks quietly, rubbing his thumb over her hip, being sure to stay over the fabric. 

“No,” she says, but the heavy sigh she lets out betrays her. 

“Come on,” he whispers, nudging his nose against her cheek and smiling. “Let me hold you for a minute, at least?” 

“You’re trying to trick me,” she complains, but she obediently turns over onto her other side. “I’d better get a nice cuddle out of this.” 

“Promise,” Steve whispers, smiling and nudging his nose against her hair, sighing. He keeps his arm tight around her, knee pressed against the back of hers. “How’s this?” 

She sighs slowly, resting her hand on top of Steve’s and squeezing. “Adequate. You’ll need practice,” she whispers. 

“Good thing we’ve agreed I’m staying with you every night,” he murmurs, smiling wide where she can’t see, though she may be able to hear it. 

“Did we really say every night?” she asks, and he can hear a smile in her voice, too. “Didn’t think we’d set the terms.” 

“Unfortunate, but true,” he murmurs. “Guess we should do that, then. How does every night sound?” 

“I don’t even  _ sleep  _ every night,” she murmurs, curling up a little. Instinctively, Steve follows her movements, keeping himself pressed against Tasha’s body. 

“Maybe it’s time you start,” he murmurs. “Or—maybe you come to me when you need comfort instead, then.” He’s afraid of being too much, too intense, for her, but he’s never been able to hold it back when it comes to Tasha Stark. 

She sighs, and nods. “Promise,” she whispers. 

*

Steve wakes up before her. 

He contemplates sticking around, but he knows too much movement, even breathing too erratically, will wake her up. 

He scoots back in the bed, smiling and looking her over. Her face is smushed against her pillow, and she’s snoring gently, more wheezing than anything else. 

He takes a deep, slow breath, and kisses the back of her head before he climbs out of bed as carefully as he can. He finds a pad of paper and a pen, writing a little note— _ out for a run. hope you slept well. let me know if you need anything, S _ —for her, leaving it on his pillow for when she wakes up. 

He runs to his room first, changing into his running clothes and shaking his head to try and clear it. Memories from yesterday, last night, flood through his head but he feels guilty for thinking about them, as though he's breaking Tasha's trust. 

( _ She thought about me _ , he thinks as he sets off on his run, and that's all that he lets himself think about for the whole thing.) 

*

His instinct when he gets back is to go to Tasha's lab and see if she needs anything, but he pushes that down. It would be ridiculous; she doesn't need him down there, making a mess of everything, distracting her. 

His fingers are itching to draw her, though, so he finds a sunny spot outside, lying on the grass and working on it. He can't quite get the shading right on her, and it takes him the better part of a day to get it to the point where it feels adequate. 

A shadow falls over him when he makes the final few marks, and he looks up, shielding his eyes from the setting sun. 

It's Tasha. That shouldn't surprise him but somehow it does; he'd expected her to stay in her lab for a day or two, especially without his prompting (pleading) for her to eat something, get just an hour's rest. 

"Hey," he says for lack of anything better, rolling onto his back and looking up at her.  _ You look beautiful _ , is what he wants to say, and he insists that he won't but—"You're so pretty," comes out unbidden. 

She looks surprised by the compliment, blinking fast at him. "Um," she says, and shakes her head, "I wanted to—yesterday you said when I needed comfort, to—come to you and you'd be there, and…" She trails off, looking at him. 

Steve nods, eternally grateful that she's gracious enough to move past his flirting blunder even as his heart sinks at the realization that he needs to stop. "Lead the way," he says, sitting up. 

She looks over his chest, at the sketchbook, and then at his face. "In my lab?" she asks. "I don't—I know you don't like it down there but I can't concentrate without you—distracting Dum-E, he's an idiot, always knocking into me." 

Steve's heart picks up a little bit of speed when she starts that sentence, but forces it down, nodding at her and smiling. "Whatever you want," he reminds her, “and I don’t hate being down there. Really like it, actually.” 

"Yeah," she murmurs, holding out a hand for him. She looks sad, almost, but Steve blinks and then the look is gone. 

As always, he tells himself, he was imagining things. 

*

He settles himself on her couch, legs crossed at the ankles and in front of him. He rests a sketchbook on his lap, smiling over at Tasha. “Better?” he asks. 

She’s sat at her desk, and spins around to look at him. “Yeah,” she says. “I’ve been down here all day, fuck, don’t know…” She waves her hands in the air, finally grabbing some of her hair with one of them and tugging slightly. 

“Don’t know what?” he asks her. 

She stops, looking at him. She squints. “I’m trying to figure out time travel,” she tells him. “We have the Pym particles, but I don’t—I’m not interested in going back in time, but I’d like to know if it’s possible.” 

Steve nods, heart beating a little faster. “Do you want to try and talk it out with me here?” he asks. “That sometimes helps you…” 

She perks up at that. “You sure?” she asks. 

Steve closes his sketchbook. “I don’t think I’ll be able to understand a word of it, but I’m here to listen,” he says. 

She grins. “Fuck off,” she says lightly. “You’re smarter than you pretend to be, I know that.” 

He rolls his eyes. “Try me,” he tells her. He gets up and goes to lean on the edge of her desk, but she shakes her head. 

“No,” she says, and stands up, pushing him down into the chair. “Can’t lecture from my seat,” she teases, running a hand through her hair and winking at him. 

His view is—fine. Just fine. His gaze travels down her body, quick enough that he hopes she doesn’t notice. 

When he looks back at her face, she’s smirking a little, just a flash. She winks at him again. “Alright,” she says, and then she’s off. 

He doesn’t understand most of the things that she says, just like he anticipated; he can never follow her science-based ramblings, but he watches her hands, nodding in agreement whenever she pauses. 

Suddenly she gets a far-away look in his eyes, and she claps, whispering, “I got it.” And then, louder—“Fuck, Rogers, I got it!” Then she’s turned around, scribbling on a piece of paper, and messing with the controls on her computer screen. 

Steve stays where he is, hands in his lap. He keeps quiet; he knows from experience that he’s likely to get hit by an over-enthusiastic Tasha if he interrupts her when she’s like this. 

She stops then, turning back around. “I did it,” she says, and then she’s flinging herself at him, hard enough that the chair spins a little. “Steve, I fucking did it!” 

He laughs, wrapping his arms around her. “You did, babe,” he says, the endearment slipping out automatically. “Think I should head out? Let you celebrate?” 

He feels her grin pressed against his shoulder. She shakes her head. “No,” she says. “No, you can stay however long you want. Just—I’m not gonna be very good company.” 

“You don’t have to be,” he tells her, kissing the side of her head. 

It’s only a second later that she’s jumping out of his lap, headed back to her computer. Steve goes back to the couch, opening his sketchbook again. 

He’s doodling again, his bigger project—Tasha, Iron Man as she is now—for smaller, more intimate pieces. He draws what Tasha must have looked like as a child, rescued by Captain America, evidently her hero. 

(That makes his heart clench in his chest. He wants to be her hero, even now, as unlikely as he knows it has to be. She has a house full of Avengers, and almost-Avengers, to choose from. 

He’s just the one she wants to spend a little extra time with, now. It doesn’t mean anything.) 

*

He wakes up to the sound of his name, being whispered. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, whispering back, “Tash?” and rubbing over his face. 

He hears a little giggle and opens his eyes as that. She’s sitting in front of him—on her knees, it must be. Her hair’s tied up, and there are two pencils sticking out of her ponytail.

“Shit,” he mumbles, frowning at her. “What’s—is everything okay?” 

“Yeah,” she tells him. “You just…” and then she’s feeling over his face, and Steve feels his heart stop. 

Until she pulls her thumb away, showing him the charcoal smudge on it. 

“Oh,” he laughs, trying not to let the disappointment show. “Sorry, shit. How long was I asleep?” 

She shrugs. “It’s not light out yet,” she tells him. “So it can’t have been that long.” She looks out the window, narrowing her eyes. “A few hours, I think.” 

Steve sits up a little more, yawning. “How’re you doing?” he asks. 

She shrugs. “I could do with a break. Maybe a distraction,” she tells him, and it sounds like a come-on, but no, it can’t be. 

He closes his eyes. “And you chose me? I’m honored,” he tells her, laughing a little and stretching. 

When he opens his eyes again, her eyes are—well, they’re not on his face. She’s staring at his thighs, he thinks. 

“Tash?” he whispers after a long second of that, letting her look. 

Her gaze shifts back to him, and she looks almost guilty. “You shouldn’t sleep in jeans, you know,” she tells him, tapping her fingers against his knee. 

“Don’t have anything else down here,” he tells her, “do I?” 

She shakes her head, and that is definitely a smirk on her face now. “Guess you’ll have to go upstairs,” she tells him, resting her palm flat against the bottom of his thigh. 

Right. This is her way of telling him to get out. Right. Fuck. 

Steve is so screwed. 

“I’ll head out, then, yeah,” he says. “Was I snoring too loud? I’m sorry, just—”

She shakes her head, smiling. “No. You’re perfect,” she tells him. "I was gonna… actually, I was gonna see if I could join you." She looks scared, almost, like she's forcing the words out. 

Steve grins. "Of course, yeah," he says. He closes his sketchbook, suddenly hyper aware of what he was drawing.  _ Shit _ . 

"Ready?" Tasha asks, shifting a little. 

She's nervous, Steve realizes. It floors him; he's known her for years and never known her to get nervous about all that much. 

_ I'll come to you when I need comfort _ , she had said. 

Steve nods. "Yeah. Gotta improve on my cuddling skills, don't I?" he asks, leaning in and giving her cheek a soft kiss. 

“That’s right, soldier,” she tells him, standing up and helping him up. “Your room or mine?” 

“Better go to mine if I’m changing,” he tells her. “Unless you want me to ruin something of yours.” 

She laughs. “Oh, Cap,” she pretends to swoon. “You really know how to sweet-talk a woman.”

For once, he bites back the defense; it only ever ends with her teasing him  _ more _ , and right now, with her giggly and pliant against him, he doesn’t want to do anything to upset it. 

They go upstairs quietly, Tasha snagging a spoon and a jar of peanut butter, letting herself into Steve’s room with ease. 

She sits on the edge of his bed, crossing her legs and digging into the container. “You should really amp up security,” she tells him. “Anyone could walk in.” 

Steve shakes his head, going through his closet to find something appropriate to wear to bed. “That’s not actually true,” he tells her, pulling off his shirt and doing his best to not be self-conscious about it. “I had JARVIS adjust it so that if you ever needed, you could get in.” 

When he turns around, sleep shirt successfully on, she’s staring at him, open-mouthed. 

He frowns. “What?” 

She shakes her head. “You’re… I don’t get you,” she tells him, looking at her lap. 

“What do you mean?” he asks, adding, “I’m gonna…” he gestures at his jeans and holds up his pair of pajama bottoms, giving her the option of looking away if she wants. (He’d have done the same for her when he met her; he doesn’t want to subject anyone to that sort of thing without their consent.) 

She dutifully covers her eyes. “That’s what I mean! You’re so  _ nice _ ,” she says. “And you trust me, of all people. I don’t get it.” 

Steve frowns, kicking his jeans aside, tying the tie around his waist. “I’m not sure why I wouldn’t trust you,” he says honestly. “You’re the person—my best friend. The person I trust most in the world.” 

“Even more than Barnes?” she asks absently, dropping her hand when he gets close. 

He nods, sitting next to her and taking her hand, delicately lacing their fingers together. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Told you that.” 

She bites the inside of her cheek. “Why?” she finally asks. 

Steve shrugs. “You trust me,” he tells her, “which, for you, is an amazing feat. It’s only fair that I give you the same courtesy.” 

“So you’d do the same even if I wasn’t…” 

He cuts her off. “No! No, shit. It’s you, you’re just—you never lie to me to get me to save face, you never try and keep a hard truth from me. It’s nice. And unique,” he tells her, looking at her again and smiling, though he can feel that it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

Tasha nods, eyes still searching. “I don’t, either,” she says. “Trust anyone more than you, I mean. No one else is on that same level. Not Pepper, or Rhodey, or—anyone.” She smiles at him. “You’d better not make me regret that,” and he can tell that she’s trying to keep her voice firm. 

“I’d never,” he promises, squeezing her hand once. 

“Which, um,” she says, breathing out fast. “I saw what you were drawing. Earlier. I wasn’t snooping, just—you fell asleep and I always like looking at your stuff, and it was  _ me _ , and you, wasn’t it?” 

He nods, swallowing. He feels like there’s compression on his chest, but still he looks at her, trying not to get too nervous. “Couldn’t stop thinking about it,” he admits. “About getting to protect you, like you wanted.” 

“Want,” she corrects, and he watches as her face goes red, as her eyes widen. “Forget that, please, don’t…” 

He pulls her into a hug. “Hey,” he says against her hair. “You want—it’s okay, babe. I’ll protect you,” and he feels ridiculous saying it, but he’ll give her anything she wants. 

She laughs, clinging to him. “Fuck, I love you,” she whispers, and it sounds like a prayer. She’s said it before, a thousand times, but this is different, and—

Something in Steve cracks open then, and he hardly notices when he pulls back, feeling over her cheek, and leans in to kiss her. 

She sighs, first, and kisses him back, keeping her hands holding onto his shirt. 

By the time his brain catches up with what he’s doing, he can’t breathe. He pulls back, looking over her face. “Sorry,” he whispers. 

She laughs a little. “Dumbass,” she breathes, sliding her arms around his neck and kissing him again, and again, and again. 

He grins with it, letting one arm slip around her waist, opening them up after a second. “Love you too,” he whispers, belated. 

He’s expecting an argument, but (as always happens) she manages to surprise him. “I thought so,” she whispers back, getting one hand under his shirt, kissing him more desperately, leaning back on the bed and tugging him with her. 

*

Steve wakes up last, this time. 

Tasha’s already awake, mug of coffee next to her, scrolling through her phone. She only looks for another second before she seems to register Steve’s eyes on her, grinning over at him. “Hey there, soldier,” she says, bending down to give him a kiss, feather-light and sweet. 

He answers with another kiss, getting his hand in her hair, other hand around her waist. He tugs her over until she’s straddling his lap. 

She grins at him, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Very good morning to me,” she laughs, hands flat on his chest, kissing her way down his neck. 

Steve laughs, and tugs her into another kiss, still smiling. “Love you,” he whispers again, for the hundredth time since last night. 

“Yeah, yeah,” she laughs, hands on both of his cheeks, pushing him down and sighing into his mouth, demanding like he always thought (knew) she’d be. 

He goes down easily, letting her guide him however she wants. 

*

Later, when Tasha’s in the shower and Steve’s straightening his room up, he catches sight of his sketchbook. 

The last couple pages are torn out, and there’s a sticky note. In Tasha’s terrible handwriting, she’s written,  _ sorry! mine now ;) T _ . 

He laughs to himself, shaking his head, and goes to make her breakfast. 

**Author's Note:**

> on twitter @ nothalfasgood, come yell with me :)


End file.
